The End of the World Running Club (33 page)

“Let’s call it a day,” he said, above the din of the rain. “Ed, do you think you can walk far enough for us to find shelter?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “We’ve only a couple of hours of daylight left anyway.” He shook his face. “Now let’s get out of this
fucking
rain.”

Bryce was by the side of the road, looking down into a valley.

“Think I’ve found just the place,” he said, pointing down to a large clearing surrounded by trees. “There, how does that look?”

In the middle of the clearing was a large stately home. It didn’t appear to be badly damaged; the red brick walls were upright, the roof was still intact and I could even make out the busts of lions still sitting on the pillars at the top of the stone steps that, I imagined, had once led down into the gardens.

“That’ll do nicely,” said Richard. “Let’s go.”

The slope down from the road was steep and boggy. After a few steps, Bryce slipped and fell on his back. Richard reached to help him up and slipped too. Before we knew it, we were all on our backs, beginning a long descent through slick mud. I struggled for a few seconds and then stopped, looked up into the rain and let gravity take me where it wanted.

Where gravity wanted to take me was a bare and stubby bush that lined a deep ditch. I sat up and began removing the thorns from my trousers, heard a scrambling, grunting noise behind me and turned in time to see Bryce crashing into my back. The impact sent us both bouldering through the bush and we landed in a heap on the other side, my face in the mud under the full weight of Bryce’s torso.

“Gmmt mmmmfff!” I said. I felt Bryce floundering above me, then the weight lifted and he pulled me to my feet. I cleared the clods from my eyes and wiped my face, feeling fresh cuts where the thorns had torn at my cheeks. Bryce stood before me like a mountain of dirt, laughing. His teeth flashed beneath the mud.

The other three arrived in a similar way. I helped Grimes through the bush and Bryce and Richard pulled Harvey from the ditch. Then we cleaned ourselves up and looked around. We had arrived in the gardens of the house. We were standing on a long slope of brown scrub dotted with patches of moss and grey grass. There was a gravel clearing in the centre where a cracked and stained fountain stood overflowing. Four stone lion heads surrounded it, spewing brown rain onto the ground. Beyond this was more earth leading up to a wide flight of steps that ran up to the house itself, which was long and bleak. The main door was closed. Tall windows lined the two storeys surrounding it, most of them smashed. The flat roof was decorated with blackened turrets.
 

I imagined what we might have seen before: rich, cropped turf and colourful beds surrounded by clipped green hedgerows; a grand fountain trickling clear water, white steps and shining red walls.

“Do you think it’s empty?” said Harvey.

“Only one way to find out,” said Bryce. He took a step forwards. There was a crack in the distance and a clod of mud exploded by his feet.

“Christ!” shouted Bryce, dancing away from the spray of dirt. “What the fuck was that?”

“There,” said Grimes, pointing up at the house. “Third window from the left, top floor.”

I looked up. There was some movement behind the dirty glass.

“Is that a gun?” said Richard.
 

Bryce held up his hands. “Hey!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! We’re not…”

A barrel appeared through a hole in the window. Another crack and another thump in the ground by Bryce’s feet, this time closer.

“Jesus Christ!” yelled Bryce. “Run!”

We ran. The hedge behind us provided no cover, so we made for the fountain. More shots rang out as we stumbled towards it, showering us with mounds of mud like blasts from a mine field. We fell with our backs to the stone, still cowering from the shots. One hit a lion’s head and it exploded into dust. Then it was quiet, apart from the sound of the rain and our own frantic breathing.

“Has it stopped?” said Harvey. “Have they stopped shooting us?”

I craned my neck and peered back over the lip of the fountain. A figure was standing at the window, peering around.

“I think so,” I said. “For now at least.”

Richard carefully turned around into a crouch and raised his hands.
 

“Hello?” he said. I saw the figure behind the window duck and raise his gun again.

“No!” shouted Richard. “Please don’t. Please stop shooting at us. We’re not dangerous.”

The figure paused and straightened a little, then seemed to reconsider and take aim again. Richard ducked, but there was no shot. When we turned again, the figure had disappeared.

“Bastards,” said Bryce. He stood up slowly. “Where are they?”

Harvey reached up and gripped the hem of Bryce’s coat. “Careful!” he said. “Maybe they’re reloading.”

“Ach, I’ve had enough,” said Bryce, shaking Harvey off and raising his arms “Hoy!” he shouted. “Youse in there! Come out and say hello!”

“Bryce!” I hissed. Bryce grunted and kicked the gravel at his feet.

Nothing happened. Bryce stood impatiently with rain dripping from his face and the rest of us hid behind the fountain, expecting him to be shot at any moment. Suddenly Bryce twitched and sprang back a little. I heard a long creaking noise from the house followed by a dull thud. Bryce seemed to relax and raised himself to his full height. I looked back and saw that the door to the house had opened. On the steps stood a tall, thin man in tweeds, wellingtons and a green wax jacket. Wisps of grey hair fell from beneath a cap and what appeared to be a black patch covered his left eye. His other eye glared down at us along the barrel of his shotgun.

The rest of us stood up slowly and raised our hands.

“We don’t want any trouble,” said Richard.
 

“Quiet,” said the man. “Stay there.” His words wobbled with age and he cleared his throat. “Stay where I can see you now.” He trod sideways down the steps, still keeping the gun trained on us, then walked across to a few metres away from us.

“What do you want?” he said. His voice was dry and rich like sediment in a glass.

Grimes took a step forwards and pulled back her hood. Rain began streaming down her face, drawing pale rivulets through the dirt on her skin.

“Just shelter,” she said, blowing water from her lips. “We’re very wet.”

The man’s eye flickered a little. He seemed to be scanning us, looking up and down at our torn, muddy clothes and soaking packs.
 

“Not armed?” said the man. “Up to no good?”

“No,” said Grimes. We each shook our heads.

The man tipped the gun in Bryce’s direction.

“And what about this one?” he said. “You going to be trouble young man?”

Bryce pulled some more mud from his face and wiped it on his coat.
 

“Good as gold,” he said.

The old man’s eye narrowed. “Your word,” he growled.

Bryce flicked three fingers from his forehead. “Scout’s honour,” he said.

The man paused and made a little noise in his throat. He lowered the gun to his side.

“Well then,” he said. He gave a brisk nod. “Name’s Bartonmouth. Welcome to Bartonmouth Hall.”

“Trying to keep fires to a minimum these days,” said Bartonmouth. He was at the far end of a kitchen, wrestling with the door handle of a large black stove that took up most of one wall. “Firewood ran out couple of months back. All bloody wet outside. Furniture’s running low. Not much left to burn…since we have guests though…
come
on you bloody…”

With a scratch and a clang the door opened and he fell back against the long oak table behind him. “Got you! There. Right now.” He brushed his palms together and stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the open door. “Wood,” he said. “Wood wood wood wood wood…”

He turned to a door on his left and disappeared through it.

We were standing at the opposite end of the kitchen, dripping and shivering on the worn, red tiles. The rain swept by in dizzy squalls outside, hammering against the windows and making them rattle in their tall frames. It felt good to be out of it, although it somehow felt colder inside. The kitchen was like every other room and corridor Bartonmouth had led us through: long floor, high ceiling and virtually bare of decoration. There were light, square patches on the walls where pictures had once been. Beneath each one were the pictures themselves; deep, dark-lined portraits and landscapes now lying frameless and curling on the cold floor.

There was a crash in the distance and the sound of stamping. A moment later Bartonmouth returned carrying a blue, canvas-covered book and a pile of splintered wood. Odd shreds of patterned fabric hung from it like seaweed. He tossed most of the timber into the stove and put the rest of it in a pile. He took the book and tore pages from it, throwing them in as well. Then he patted in his pockets, muttering, until he found what he was looking for. There was a chink and a glint and a small
whumf
of flame. He knelt down, lit the stove and closed the door, standing back.

“There,” he said, clicking his lighter shut and turning to face us. “Usually heats up pretty quickly. Should be some hot water soon as well. Expect you’ll want baths? Installed some greywater collectors before…you know….the
thing
, so all our water comes in from the rain. Good for the environment and all that. Bloody good thing for us now too. Not supposed to drink it mind, but not much choice any more. Don’t mind a bit of rainwater do you? Good, good.”

He stood, hands behind his back, wobbling back and forwards on his tiptoes. Eventually he looked up from the floor and jumped.

“Well, sit down,” he said. “Sit down.” He pulled out a few chairs near to the stove. “Put your jackets over here if you don’t mind. Boots, too; they’ll soon warm up.” We hung our coats on a rack by the stove and dropped our boots beneath them, then took our seats in silence. I was still dripping on the floor. The glass panel in the stove began to glow orange and a low roar travelled up the flue that led away through the ceiling. I felt warmth creeping up my legs and smelled wood smoke on the cold, musty air. Bartonmouth took the chair at the top, laying his hands on the worn oak of the table. He was old, maybe in his eighties, his skin lined with deep folds and blue veins. His mouth hung open in a quivering, pink arc as his one good eye darted about our faces. His brow flickered with question.

“So,” he said. “Who’s going to start?”

Richard told him about the barracks and the boats and then each of us told our own account of what had happened to us before. He listened intently, his face twitching with emotion, saying nothing but
heavens
,
good gracious
,
well I never
or
dear oh dear
at the right moments. When we had finished, he turned and replenished the stove with more wood, still shaking his head and chuckling quietly at something Bryce had said.
 

“Did you know about the boats?” said Grimes.

“Boats?” said Bartonmouth, taking his seat. “Yes, yes, heard all about the boats.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Not much point for someone like me. Besides, couldn’t leave the old place. Not after everything.” He sat back and crossed his arms, looking around the walls. “Family’s been here from the beginning. Hundreds of years. Not many left like it…not many at all now I expect. Opened up to the public a few years back of course, had to, the old girl wasn’t too keen but I made her see sense, no money you see, all bloody gone…”

“Old girl?” said Harvey. “Is that your missus?”

“Yes,” said Bartonmouth, smiling. “The
missus
, yes. Gone now of course, sad to say. Couple of years ago.” He tapped a long thumb on the wood. “Just me left now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that mate,” said Harvey. “Know just how you feel.”

“Just you?” said Richard. “All on your own in this house?”

“I know,” said Bartonmouth. “Bloody silly. Ridiculous. Far too big. But got no choice you see? Too much history. Too much…”
 
He flapped a hand over his shoulder.
 
“Too much behind.”

“What about staff?” said Richard. “Didn’t you have cooks? Servants?”

“Pah!” said Bartonmouth. He laughed and waved a hand at Richard. “Very good, very good. Couldn’t afford all that. Used to have a cook but he left. Gardener, too, no idea where he’s gone.” He rubbed his chin and looked uncertainly out the window, craning his skinny neck to see through the sheets of rain. “Keep meaning to go out and see if I can tidy up those beds, get the lawn ship-shape and what not. Maybe try in the spring. Anyway, staff. Rest of them weren’t real. Actors. Put on by the company running the tours you see. Maids, butlers, all that. All for the public. Lived somewhere else. Never saw ‘em again after, you know, the
thing
. All gone. Vanished. Poof. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes,” said Bryce. “Yes, please.”

“Good man.” Bartonmouth smiled and pushed himself up from the table. “Back in a jiffy.”

He left through the same door he had gone through to get the wood. We heard his footsteps disappear down a creaking corridor. Bryce cocked his thumb back at the door.

“Does he even know what’s happened?” he said.

“You mean the
thing
?” I said. “He has to. There’s no way he can’t know.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know the full extent,” said Grimes. “If he’s been on his own here, without a telephone, internet. He’s an old man.”

“He’s a nice sort,” said Harvey. “I like him. We don’t want to upset him.”

“All the same,” said Richard. “He might have family elsewhere. We should make sure he knows.”

We heard Bartonmouth’s slow footsteps out in the corridor and the sound of glasses rattling. When he returned he was carrying a silver tray of tumblers and a brown, thick-glassed bottle with a fraying label. His arms were shaking and he was frowning in concentration. Bryce jumped up.

“Let me help you there buddy,” he said, carefully guiding the tray down onto the table and inspecting the label on the bottle sideways as he did so.